Fall of Rome

I'm surrounded by boxes--by pieces of myself packaged away, somehow too close to touch.

I can recall things we've said to each other--conversations in bits and pieces from years ago, and that's how I know you now. Bits and pieces.

I know you sleep out of necessity.

"Why do we have mustard?"

"It's Steven's."

"He comes over here?"

"Sometimes."

"Enough to keep mustard in our fridge?"

"He wanted a sandwich."

"Doesn't he have mustard at home?"

"He has a lot of things at home."

"Does she know?"

"No. Not that I know of."

"I hate mustard."

"Me, too."

A slow leak.

We drove roads that carved through fields of wheat grass. I mistook farmers' lights for Stars of David. Stars like Jesus.

He gripped my left hand over the gear shift.

"Think you can find first?"

The car coasted as he pressed the clutch. I shifted. "No, that's third." He held my hand tight, but I carried the weight. I pushed into first.

"Good job. Second." I pulled back. The fields to our right were black with midnight and grass. Fireflies like stars.

I rolled down my window as he pressed the clutch again.
"Third."

I shifted back to first and we stalled.

A herd of doe dotted the field to our left. They stared at us--half-frightened, half-perplexed.

No. Never. No. Never. No. Never.

He thinks very little of me, of little me. The worst catch--symbiotic drain. I think of hosts and parasites and wonder why there has to be a difference.

"Not tonight, dear."

The Caronlinas, the temperate climate. I wasn't expecting it to be this cold. I packed just one pair of jeans, a dress that I had dyed myself (because the original color washed me out), tattered canvas shoes. He grips the steering wheel and his protruding knuckles stretch his skin. Years of finger play. Minstrelsy.

Not. Tonight. Dear.

My unhappiness cries wolves from the woods; they peek from behind trunks and limbs, peering me with familiar eyes before returning to the hunt. I never expected to see gray in these parts. I never expect. He said my curse is that I'm underwhelmed by everything.

Not. Tonight.

My soles have been walked bald. Stripped of practicality, they slip along the fibers of the floor mat. Nothing is comfortable. I'm not pragmatic like he is. I can't color within the lines and he pointed that out once, years and years ago, when I stayed home sick and colored pages of thick black lines for him. Because I missed him. He pointed that out.

Dear. Not.

What's not? What not is there that takes the place of a

Tonight. Dear.

Of a foggy windshield: humid without; chilly within.

He presses his pen into my paper flesh--blotting ink, mocking my veins.

He, "Never mind."
I, "Never will."

A tall drink of water; I'm parched. The ink blotches sheets of paper, like stained cotton beneath a windowsill. His curtains tangle over our web of legs that lack motivation. A lazy arm drapes over my deflated chest, and I think of erasing whole alphabets.

The wind lends a drying hand to the creases behind my knees as I'm scooped by his arms--branded and too large for my grip.

I told him about taping my keys--duct, electrical, masking--because I have difficulties getting in. I can't match proper key to proper lock, and this is supposed to be home.